


Echoes a Spark

by sittingonacloud (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxious Niall Horan, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Clairvoyance, Claustrophobia, Fortune Telling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 11:00:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20173138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sittingonacloud
Summary: The boys visit a fortune teller, one by one.





	Echoes a Spark

**Author's Note:**

> What I know about pyromancy is limited to a wikipedia article and thinking it's a pretty neat plot device for a small character study of the boys.  
Thank you for reading, it is much appreciated!

**2013**

Tipsy and buzzing with youthful excitement, the five boys migrate to the tent that sits the furthest from the dwindling crowd of the markets.

_F_ _ortune Teller / Pyromancy / Clairvoyant._

There’s a compelling slither of light where the mauve curtains part in lieu of a doorway.

Niall is immediately struck by the heavy scent of smoke and citrus, so intense he can almost taste it. He presses himself against Louis’ side and peers over his shoulder, eyes drifting up from the pot of fire sitting in the centre of a lonely table and to the figure perched behind it.

“One at a time,” her voice is a low hum that Niall barely catches. The boys look between each other.

“I’ll go first,” Harry’s cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright, taking a moment to cast each boy a smile before slipping into the tent alone.

**Harry**

The flickering of the fire mirrors the thrill licking up his spine, the nervous smile stretched across his face aches a little. Picking at the bracelets wrapped around his wrist, he waits for instruction, wondering what his mother would make of this. A disapproving click of the tongue paired with glimmer of daring in her eyes... Maybe. He’s not quite sure. Surely the same woman who loves Stevie Nicks would let this slide.

The lady smiles at him, her features long and sharp, auburn hair cascading down past her shoulders. He feels his face burn from the heat radiating from those dancing flames. They seem to perk up and dance as the fortune teller hums to herself contently.

“What’s your name, dear?” her voice is low and melodic.

“Harry Styles,” his voice wavers a little, the strong aroma scorching his lungs.

She waves her hand, long slender digits grinding down on a pinch of salt that has the fire lick up at the air, startling Harry.

“You’re breaking through the atmosphere, darling,” she purrs, “So why are you crying?”

Harry blinks, skin prickling on his arms and the back of his neck. Mouth agape, the pressure on his chest to say something growing and growing.

“You will understand yourself better in time, you’re still emerging. You’re rushing. Having ambition does not mean you can’t have patience. With yourself. With others.”

Too stunned to react, too mystified to conjure up words for a polite reply. Gravity, heavy and burdensome, pushing down on his shoulders. His eyes dip down from the shadows flickering across her face to the fire itself. Flashes of light, the echoes of screams ringing in his ears. The weight, curling around his ribcage, growing and growing and growing. He’s lost himself and he doesn’t know how it happened. He can’t separate himself from the fire - like his limbs are just smouldering tongues of fire. The noise swells to almost deafening volume. And just when he thinks he can’t stand it any longer, it settles. Like a receding tide. He exhales shakily, blinking up at the stranger.

The fire has calmed down, the room sits still in low light. He can hear Louis’ laugh intermingled with the murmur of the other boy’s voices from outside. He finds himself anchored by the sound, a cool kind of relief seeping into his skin.

_Patience_.

“It’s time to go,” she instructs gently. He thanks her, extending his hand to shake out of habit, blushing a deeper shade of pink when he realises how goofy it must seem. Still, she takes his hand in hers, and it feels like he’s holding something fragile. Like she might shatter if he were to make a mistake and hold on too tight.

**Liam**

He comes in, slightly rattled. Louis had shoved him lightly towards the opening as Harry had emerged from the tent, looking all flushed and shy. He slides into the chair, alarmed by the silence. It almost doesn’t sit right with him, these moments of stillness. He has to keep himself alert for the next step up the ladder. The next interview. The next performance. The next elaborate scheme to exit a hotel without being ambushed by girls and cameras.

The fortune teller waves her hand over the flame, an amused quirk of her lips that Liam has to peer closer at to work out if it’s really there. The flame jumps out at the air between them.

“Steady but vulnerable,” she croons, “Structured, but still sensitive.”

He wonders what it is about him that gives that away. Why it’s not enough to choose to be the solid foundation. To want that for himself. Is he not enough? His brow furrows as he gnaws on the flesh of his bottom lip.

“It’s heavy, isn’t it? Taxing on your soul.”

His next breath feels as though it’s being extracted out of him by the fire. The cogs all spin together, smooth and quick. Like an optical illusion, spiralling in front of his eyes. He can’t keep up. It’s a relentless unease, slipping from his grip. He can’t hold onto a thought for longer than a moment before it evaporates into smoke and light.

And then it’s all gone.

He almost cries out in protest when the searing blaze is wiped away.

“I’m... Is-Is it over now?” he asks.

“Yes, dear. Take care.” He shudders at that, not knowing if it’s an instruction of responsibility, or a gentle plea for his own sake.

**Zayn**

It’s not so much an active choice as it is instinct to go in next. He knows Niall is claustrophobic, and the interior of the tent looks rather snug, so he’d rather be there when Niall emerges. He’s unsure of what to expect, given Harry exited seeming more exhilarated and Liam more exhausted.

It’s cozy and warm, like a lullaby. His eyes go half-lidded as he sinks into the chair. He glances around, but can’t make out anything that sits or stands in the shadows. He’s completely encased in darkness, sitting with the fire in the womb of the tent.

His fringe has fallen across his forehead and his eyes must be dark enough to resemble two black holes from the fatigue that has had time to make itself known to him. The ache in his temples, the heaviness of his thin frame. They’re in New York City and that’s more than enough of a reason to be bouncing in his seat, but he can’t muster the will to pretend.

He considers the fire, a nervous feeling curling around his stomach.

“What are you fighting for?” she asks, cryptic and low.

Weary muscles start to buzz with numbness, the light is vibrant and spritely, making the rim of his vision a shade of black so dark it seems to eat into the light the longer he stares. It’s fading and fading. Becoming nothing but a dull blade. But like the flame, what sits in the centre, in the pit of his chest, is vibrant. And it’s searing, too much to ignore. The embers that jump out of the pot, those small unplanned oddities, catch his eye.

“How deep does it go? Will you know when you can no longer stand it? Will you save yourself before it becomes all there is?”

He thinks he can see it. Five silhouettes stretched out behind him.

**Louis**

“Should I show you my palms, then?” he quips, pressing his hands onto the wooden table. The lady just chuckles, gesturing with a pale hand towards the fire.

“You wouldn’t want to burn yourself, dear,” she replies.

Louis is half-tempted to crack a joke about how his hands are scarred anyway from the multiple misfortunes when failing to properly navigate around the boiling water for his morning tea, but instead chooses to inspect the fire.

“You’re not going to upset me, are you?” he asks, regarding the sleek black pot that houses the flames.

Harry had told him, hand gripping his forearm almost too tightly, about how her answer sounded like poetry. That he thinks he understood what she meant. And Louis had laughed at that. The poor lad would never want to wound the ego of a total stranger by not understanding, or even giving that impression. Louis knows him well. His puppy-like eagerness to please. It could be endearing, but more often than not it grows into a worry that plagues him whenever he catches sight of that look the younger boy gets when he’s become too invested in the opinions of others.

It shouldn’t matter. Not to Harry, not to the boys, not to him.

“You’ve got strength to shoulder the burdens that aren’t even yours to carry.”

Louis arches an eyebrow, licking over the back of his teeth, doing his best to keep his expression neutral and the nervous churning of his stomach to a minimum. It’s a skill he’s built upon over the years, long before he became a part of the band. He’s as masterful as even the best liars. But as of now, he feels transparent. Confused. The fire sizzles as it eats away at itself, Louis just feels sad now. Like there’s something absent but he can’t pinpoint what it is. It must be important, because he feels less like himself. He feels like a fire.

“It’s going to take everything you have. Are you willing to make that sacrifice?”

He nods without lucidity, feeling the heat igniting every nerve ending in his body. He’s warm, too warm. And the air around him strokes at his skin, making goosebumps pebble along his arms. He licks over his lips, keeping his body still despite his face burning up. He won’t move. He doesn’t think he could, even if that’s what he wanted. _Should that concern him? Surely it’s a good thing? Is it so wrong? To brave the fire? Isn’t that courageous?_

**Niall**

He’s scratching at his thumbnail, already dreading how red his face is going to get by the time he exits the tent. He’s never been too enticed by the mystical - that tends to happen to those who endured Catholic school. And much like someone raised Catholic, there’s a guilt that lurks underneath his immediate awareness for engaging in this sort of thing. Witchcraft. He had joked about it with Harry just before, between bouts of biting down on his fingertips and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

He had told Harry about how he had to go to confession when he was in school to tell the Father about how he didn’t do his homework or something just as sinful. How he’d sit in a small enclosed space and feel like clawing at his clothes from the restlessness it induced. The same kind of restless feeling he had gotten just that morning in the hotel elevator.

He had been standing facing the doors, craning his neck to look up and watch the numbers tick over, counting along so the dull mechanical droning wouldn’t rouse such a sick feeling in his gut. The clunky vibrations making him tremble wouldn’t be so bad if he concentrated on those numbers. The teasing remarks from the other boys behind him wouldn’t sting as badly if he could just watch those numbers blink at him, changing at a steady pace.

“Dearest, don’t lose perspective. Don’t let your identity slip away. Nurture yourself.”

The flames clamber over each other, and Niall thinks he can see the order in it. Maybe it’s not so chaotic as it seems to be at first glance. The sharp heat illuminates every dark corner of Niall’s vision. He can see himself in the hazy light. A homing beacon of sorts.

He wonders, as he has done before on sleepless nights, if his purpose is to cultivate light. That maybe could carve a place in that, settle into it and create his own sort freedom.

_Freedom_… It seems elusive now. None of them know if it’s a step ahead or a step behind them. They clutch at what they can, though. Because they can’t be still for a moment.

There’s questions caught like stale smoke in his throat, and he casts his mind back to the grey hue of Louis’ eyes when he surfaced from the billowing tongues of fabric, the smile forged on his face immediately alerting Niall. He wonders if Louis let his guard down, even for half a moment, when presented with the fire. If he felt his tension melt and mould itself into something more precise. If he felt even a slither of what Niall felt in this moment. If any of them did. If Harry was right, she really could see into your mind.

**\-----**

The five of them retreat to bed early in the morning, like wispy clouds floating across the sky. The respite that their independent cocoons of crisp hotel sheets brings them is a relief like no other. The traffic outside becomes nothing more than a murmur to lull them into much needed slumber. The words of the woman behind the fire still linger, rolling around in their skulls over and over and over. 

Harry dreams about emerging from dark to light. Or was it the other way around? He can't tell. The line between the binary is blurred and he's uncertain. But he feels himself stretch out and grow. He feels free and weightless. It's as strange as it is thrilling. Like learning to walk on air. He doesn't know where to land. And he stirs awake with a scared whimper before he can figure it out.

Liam dreams about the ground beneath his feet crumbling to dust. He doesn't fall far, and the elation from that is almost worth having experienced the fear. Almost. He looks around, because there are voices, pairs of eyes he doesn't recognise. He can't spot them, and he feels his body burn. He can push it away, this heavy weight. He can do it - he's sure of it. So he pushes on. Feeling the ache of burdensome weight ease.

Zayn dreams about walking along piano keys, tripping over the ebony shapes that allude his feet. The keys continue on and on, further than he can see, and he's swaying from uncertainty. _This is a dream_, he realises with muted surprise. He wonders, looking out into the distance, what he should do about it.

Louis dreams about lying on the warm rocks where the waves crash against. Sea foam jumping out at him like fire embers. He cocks his head slightly to watch how the water eats away at the rocks, wearing them down, sculpting them into something he can't quite make out. He doesn't want to move, but soon his legs are dangling over the edge, and his back is pressed to some sort of wall that isn't absorbing his weight quick enough. He might not have a choice but to swim. 

Niall dreams about soaring so high and so fast he's unsure if he's flying or falling. The dream morphs like wet clay into something else entirely. Walls standing tall and solid all around him, and all of a sudden he's on the ground, watching a small feathered creature above his head zoom from one corner to the other, panicked and desperate. He can feel the sour burn of anxiety start to clench his chest, suffocating him. He's begging, pleading. The bird won't listen in it's frenzied state. He has to stop flying, Niall cries out. He has to stop flying so he'll know he's ok. He has to stop flying even if that's all he knows how to do.


End file.
